As a fan of the original Last House, sick directed by Wes Craven, I felt that it was somehow my duty to seek out and watch this undoubtedly horrible remake. Wait, let me back up for a second. Maybe I shouldn’t have referred to myself as a “fan” of the original. I mean, that was a pretty fucked up movie guys. A “fan” implies a certain level of enjoyment that I’m not entirely comfortable with people knowing that I experienced while watching what amounted to constant emotional and physical brutality set to the tune of utterly inappropriate banjo ditties. So let’s try this again.

The above is a scrap of paper I found on a corpse lying next to a dumpster. The body was too horribly disfigured to discern age, advice race, or even gender. To the average person, the letter would have had no particular meaning. But to someone who has witnessed the horrors of Disturbia, tossed restlessly, hopelessly in bed, plagued by the night terrors, and, with a trembling hand, pressed the cold barrel of a shaky gun to his temple, eyes welling with tears, determined to put an end to his suffering, the meaning of the letter was all too clear. I have postponed my suicide long enough to warn others, but I lack the strength to continue living beyond that. After this is written, I will execute myself, and join the others who had given in sooner–the lucky ones–in the afterlife. And yes, the letter was signed “anonymous” for whatever reason. Maybe that was the person’s name, geez.